Chapter 4 #2
The question shouldn’t have stung, but it did. He was right. Outside of work and the clinic, what did I have? A sterile apartment I barely spent time in. A handful of acquaintances at the gym. And I occasionally played tennis with people whose last names I couldn’t remember.
“I have a very fulfilling life,” I said, but even I didn’t believe it.
Beau’s expression softened. “Mason—”
“We should get back to work.” I stood abruptly, carrying my empty container to the small trash can by the door. “We still need to finalize the timeline for the merger approval process.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to push. But he just nodded and pulled his laptop toward him. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
We worked for another two hours, reviewing documents and building out the case strategy. And despite everything—despite the history between us, despite the way my body was hyperaware of every time he shifted in his chair or leaned close to point at something on my screen—it worked. We worked.
Beau would think of something I’d missed, and I’d catch an error in his logic. We’d argue about the best approach, and somehow we’d end up with something better than either of us would’ve created alone.
It was infuriating.
It was also exhilarating.
Around ten, Beau stood and stretched, his sweater riding up just enough that I glimpsed a patch of skin above his belt. I looked away immediately, focusing on my laptop screen.
“I should head out,” he said. “Got a big day tomorrow. Moving into the new place.”
“The condo in Shockoe Bottom?”
“Yeah. Finally escaping my parents’ arctic tundra.” He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair. “Thanks for dinner. And for, you know, talking. About genuine stuff.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
He was standing close again—too close. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the way his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
My gaze dropped to his mouth without permission.
Don’t.
But I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to close the distance between us, to find out if he kissed the way he argued—with everything he had.
“Mason?”
I blinked, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “What?”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
He studied me for a moment longer, and I had the horrible feeling he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. But he just nodded and headed for the door.
“See you tomorrow, Price.”
“Goodnight, Thatcher.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in the suddenly too-quiet office, my heart pounding like I’d just run a marathon.
This is a problem.
* * *
The second my apartment door clicked shut behind me, I shed my jacket like it was on fire. My tie followed, yanked loose with a sharp tug, the silk whispering against my collarbone as it slithered free. The briefcase hit the floor with a thud. I needed a hot shower. Needed to feel myself burn.
The water roared to life, steam billowing up to fog the glass before I’d even stepped in. Scalding. Punishing. A heat that should’ve seared the memory of Beau right out of my skin.
It didn’t.
I braced my forehead against the tile, letting the water sluice down my back, but all I could see was Beau—leaning over my desk, his cuffs rolled up to reveal the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearms. The way his fingers had tapped against the wood, restless, like he was fighting the same pull I was.
Curiosity, he’d called it. Like I was some goddamn equation he needed to solve.
A groan clawed up my throat. I turned my face into the spray, but the water couldn’t drown out the sound of his laugh—low, rough, the kind that vibrated straight through my ribs.
Or the way his voice had dropped when he’d asked about my mother, like he was peeling back a layer of me no one else got to see. It was almost like he cared.
My fingers curled into a fist against the wall.
“God, I hate him,” I muttered.
Except I didn’t. Not even close.
The soap slipped in my grip, suds sliding down my chest, and my traitorous brain supplied the memory of his sweater riding up—just a flash of pale skin, the shallow dip of his waist, the hint of a scar near his hipbone I’d never get to ask about.
My stomach twisted. I wanted to trace it with my tongue. Wanted to hear him gasp.
Fuck.
My cock was already heavy, aching, and when I wrapped my hand around it, it was with furious resignation. Like my body had been waiting all day for this.
The first stroke was punishment.
The last was relief.
Beau’s cologne—bergamot and something smoky, like burnt sugar—flooded my senses. I could taste it, could still feel the ghost of his breath against my jaw when he’d leaned in to argue about the damn case, close enough that I’d had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing him.
My hips jerked forward, water sluicing over my shoulders as I imagined him pressed against my office door, his hands fisted in my shirt, his mouth hot and demanding. Or worse—spread across my desk, his dark eyes locked on mine as he dared me to do something about it.
A broken sound tore from my throat. My free hand slammed against the tile, fingers splaying wide as my orgasm hit me like a wrecking ball—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Beau’s name burned on my lips, swallowed by the roar of the water, and by the shame curling in my gut.
I sagged against the tile, chest heaving, the aftershocks of release doing nothing to quiet the voice in my head:
You’re so fucked.
The guilt hit immediately—sharp, vicious, and deserved.
I finished showering on autopilot, dried off, and climbed into bed without bothering to turn on any lights. My bedroom was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment: gray walls, white bedding, a single framed photo of my parents on the nightstand.
I stared at the ceiling, my body sated but my mind racing.
This couldn’t happen. Whatever this was—attraction, curiosity, fifteen years of unresolved tension—it couldn’t happen.
We worked together. I was on partner track, and I wasn’t throwing away everything I’d worked for because Beau Thatcher had walked back into my life and made me feel things I’d spent years not feeling.
I could absolutely handle this.
Except I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me tonight—really looked at me, like he saw past the perfect suits and the rigid control to something underneath. Something real.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about how good it had felt to simply talk to someone. To let my guard down, even just a little.
And I definitely couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted to do it again.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the dark bedroom. I stared at the ceiling for a moment before reaching for it.
Patsy Hollingsworth: Mason, darling, are you still awake?
Me: Yes.
Patsy: Beau is moving into his new condo tomorrow morning. Would you mind helping him? I think it would be good for the two of you to spend time together outside the office. Team building!
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should make up an excuse—prior commitment, early tennis match, literally anything. I sighed and typed out a response.
Me: What time?
Patsy: 9 AM. His parents home is in Windsor Farms. I'll text you the address. Thank you, sweetheart. This means a lot to me.
I set the phone down and closed my eyes.
"I'm seriously fucked."